And now she stood in a crowded restaurant, being told by a sharply dressed manager that the daughter she once found embarrassing had the authority to remove her.
Vanessa reached for my arm. “Please don’t do this.”
I stepped back before she could touch me. “No. Please don’t ask me to absorb one more public insult so you can stay comfortable.”
Her face shifted—no longer defensive or superior, just suddenly younger. For a brief moment, I saw the sister beneath the polish. Then she glanced at our mother, and the moment disappeared.
Mom made one last attempt. Tears.
Not many. Just enough to dampen her eyes and soften her expression. “I was joking,” she said. “You know how I joke.”
I did know.
That was the problem.
I looked at Martin. “Please cancel the reservation.”
He nodded once and returned toward the office, giving them the dignity of leaving on their own. That was more kindness than I felt.
Trevor exhaled softly. “We should go.”
Cheryl muttered something about another café in Shorewood and began backing away before anyone could assign her a stance.
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